


In Six Parts

by ProfessorDrarry



Series: Drarry One Shot [7]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Autobiography, M/M, One Shot, Pining Draco Malfoy, Quidditch Player Draco Malfoy, Quidditch Player Harry Potter
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-08
Updated: 2019-07-08
Packaged: 2020-06-24 12:33:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19723768
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ProfessorDrarry/pseuds/ProfessorDrarry
Summary: Part one. In which several things are revealed, not the least of which is that Harry Potter is apparently gay now.Well, no. Not gay. Pansy would kill him for saying gay.





	In Six Parts

Part one. 

In which several things are revealed, not the least of which is that Harry Potter is apparently gay now. 

Well, no. Not gay. Pansy would kill him for saying gay. 

_Do I constantly insist that you are straight Prince Malfoy of the ridiculous? Then stop saying I'm gay. I'm queer. Bi if you must, but enough with the gay._

So. No. Not gay. 

But Draco knows only the important part is the disastrous reality that if Harry Potter is capable of being attracted to men, as this first authorised biography would suggest, then Draco is even more pathetic than he was before. Because if there is a possibility of Draco's exhausting little crush being reciprocated, then the fact that they have been fighting even more than normal, and not just on the pitch, just becomes hopelessly depressing. 

The hate and anger have always made Harry sexy and alluring in very indecent ways, since Draco despised simpering affection or softness, preferred to have a bit of fight with his fuck. The only time Draco ever felt he was close to understanding Harry was when they had spent time together on the Quidditch pitch in years before. And that time is past. 

There is a war and a half between them now, and Draco understands less than ever about the world. 

Part two. 

In which Draco learns that Harry died. Not, 'was gravely injured or lost consciousness' or 'medically had no heart beat'. But actually fucking _died_. 

That awful, insedious man had had the audacity to fucking cease to _exist_ for a moment. As though the world would have just carried on, unchanged. 

He is livid for the entire next day. He beats Harry in a head-to-head training ritual by using sheer brute strength, knocking one side of the podium off kilter so that it goes into Harry's path and he misses the snitch by a fraction of a second. The move is illegal, and Mora threatens him with a three game suspension, but Draco hits the showers feeling better. 

"What the _fuck_ is wrong with you?" Harry snipes at him a moment later, throwing his leather shin strap at Draco's head. He ducks neatly out of the way. 

"Pulling a dangerous fucking maneuver like that on a team mate in a practice." 

"Just get out of my way, Potter. Don't be a sore loser."

The sneer is fake and Harry seems to feel it. He scrunches up his nose, wrinkles his forehead, pauses for a second before huffing and walking away. Draco knows he'd have thrown a punch—or worse—had Potter asked him what was wrong. 

Part three. 

In which the details of the the few years after the war appear. It is more than Potter has ever been willing to divulge. Draco knows because he's read all the articles. 

The details are specific. The start of a very promising Ministry career, the painful burn out. The decision to try out for the Beacons, the minor league team that doesn't quite understand who they have on their pitch until they are faced with the best Seeker anyone has seen in over thirty years. The quick rise from the lower levels, fame upon fame dragging him out of the gutter against his will. 

Potter has been reclusive since the moment he joined the team. He doesn't travel to away games with them, doesn't stay in the same hotels, doesn't come to team meals. Draco thought he understood why; after all, it took him a year to be dragged away from his own ghosts and made to be human again. A year of badgering and pestering from the captains that if he wanted to be on the team, he had to learn to trust them. 

But no one seemed to badger Potter. It infuriated Draco. 

Until he reads part four. 

In which the government is using Potter used him as a political scapegoat. In which photos of his every romance, affair, and—most terribly, of family vacations with his very young God children—surface every time he tries to rejoin the public eye.

In which there is a price Potter has to pay for any haphazard, youthful mistake. A price that takes the form of his worst memories, all of which are lauded as heroism. A price of headlines that exclaim his return to normalcy, even a decade late. Harry Potter is not allowed to be 'Harry Potter, incredible, talented Quidditch star' without also being 'Harry Potter, saviour of the world'.

And Draco stops in his tracks. 

It's dumb, of course it is. He should have understood this about Potter's life. Fame is one step to the left of notoriety. Draco understands the latter more than anything else in the world. 

They have Tuesdays and Wednesdays off after travel games and Draco has gone home instead of to the pub. He's too tired, run ragged by being put on first string for the first time since Potter's arrival. The man himself took mysteriously 'ill', though Mora would give no details. 

Draco finishes the book on a Tuesday night, a glass of scotch in his hand. It's the third, or possibly fourth. He doesn't care that he is drunk, even though that is why the quote breaks him in half. 

" _You took it all from me," Potter said patiently, holding out a book filled with cut out articles from the Prophet. "I was just a kid. No one seemed to care, ever, about that. All I want now is a minute to breath. Maybe fall in love. Maybe even make some mistakes I'll regret in fifty years. Can anyone tell me that their hopes are different than that?"_

And no, Draco thinks. No one can say that their hopes are any different than that. 

He curses and cleans and eats too much cheese on Wednesday. It's a strange response, he agrees. But the book is clutched in his hand all morning Thursday as he gets ready to go back to the field. He doesn't have a plan. Shoves it in his bag as he takes up his broomstick, and quite honestly forgets all about it as they fly. The only thing stopping him from ramming Potter off his broom when he appears, twenty minutes late and pinch-faced, is that he is on thin ice with the league as it is. 

They play a friendly game, Mora calling for a quick, mid-air colour change. But Potter gets his transformation done first, donning the green jersey they use when they practice. The colour sets Draco off even more as they shake hands at centre pitch and wait for the release of the quaffle. 

Draco is distracted, so Harry finds the snitch quickly and easily. Thursday practices are short. Mora calls it moments later. He suspects she's a bit hungover. 

They all stomp back to the change rooms in a neat line, always on display in the practice pitch. The reporters' clicks are audible even from a distance, and Draco has to fight the urge to run up and sheild Harry with his cloak; the sensation reminds him that the biography is sitting, blazing Harry's photo in full view, on top of his bag. His face heats with embarrassment. 

In the change rooms, the normal cajoling begins. The team's won the past three games, so everyone is jovial and loving. The ribbing is gentle, only picking on things that are known to be safe. No mean laughter, even with Draco. For a minute, he wonders how it is possible he is included, at all, let alone treated the same. 

And it hits him. 

They have all moved on. The world has kept on spinning. He suddenly knows exactly what he will do. He grimaces because it isn't what he _wants_ to do. 

What he wants is to wait for the room to clear, to corner Potter, who is always the last to leave—part of his secrecy, Draco suspects. He wants to wait and confront Potter, wave the book in front of his face and demand answers. 

He can see the scene clearly in his mind. Harry, damp and flustered, possibly still not wearing a shirt. Draco, tall and proud, telling him to get over himself and let the past be the past. He'd have Harry speechless in seconds, have him in his mouth a moment later. Draco on his knees on the hard ground, taking what he wanted and leaving no doubt behind. 

Or else in the doorway, up against a wall, dragging moans from the rubble of their past and waiting until Harry begged, jutting his groin against Draco's thigh with abandon until Draco finally conceded and took him in hand. 

Or maybe in the showers, waiting for permission from the next shower stream, muttering filthy things while he palmed himaelf, daring Potter to flee. Harry would not back down, because he was Harry Potter, and Draco was sure he wouldn't deny their obvious chemical attraction. And if he stayed, Harry could have him, right there, buried deep in the base of his spine until Draco forgot his own name. 

These were the things Draco _wanted_. But they were not the things Harry _needed_. For some reason, he cared about the difference. Draco cared. 

So instead, he waited as the room slowly emptied. As people went off, in twos and threes. Off to their days, their lives, their families. 

He waited on the bench, calmly holding the book, as Potter showered and emptied his locker. As he sat on his own bench, facing away from Draco.

"Heard you played well, Malfoy. On Saturday. Sorry I missed it." 

Draco resisted his quip, about how if he hadn't missed it, Draco wouldn't have played. He murmured what he hoped sounded like a grateful mumble. He stood. Slowly, he put his bag on his shoulder, turned and put the book on the bench beside Harry's toweled form. He let his eyes linger on his chest, let himself imagine a thousand more locker room fantasies that would never be enough. 

"Part five," he whispers, his voice soft and gruff despite his efforts to remain calm. He's hopeless. So attracted to this man his voice can't even remain neutral. He clears his throat and tries again. 

"Part five, in which two sworn enemies bury the hatchet over lunch," he asks, hesitant and nervous. "In which the asshole apologises, buys the pints, and tries desperately not to spend the whole hour staring at the hero's mouth." 

Harry stares at him. He picks up the book, opens the cover. It's a signed copy. Draco had been hoping he would never find that out, but somehow, he had always know they would end up here, with his infatuation spread out between them like a thick blanket.

Draco waits, breath caught.

Finally, Harry laughs a small laugh; it's a new sound to Draco, light and carefree. He's instantly addicted. He needs more of that sound. 

"I've been waiting for you to just pin me to a wall," Harry says simply, as though he's slightly disappointed. "But lunch sounds good. On two conditions." 

Draco tilts his head, captivated. Harry stands and steps toward him. Draco instinctively backs up, never having had a good experience Harry Potter advancing on him. 

"One," Harry says, holding up a finger, "that is the last time you ever use the word 'hero' around me." 

Draco nods. He can understand that. 

"And two," he continues, "we get the fact that I want to pin you down and snog you out of the way right now. Or else I won't be able to focus on the apology you plan on crafting."

Draco is approaching comprehension when his back hits the lockers and his knees buckle and Harry's soap is in his mouth as he presses his face to Draco's neck. 

"You took a long fucking time to figure this one out, Malfoy."

Draco technically hears the words, although he's preoccupied by the fact that they are murmured in between wide mouthed kisses along his windpipe. Harry pulls his face back, pins Draco's arms to his sides, leans in until their foreheads are touching. 

"Part six" he mumbles into Draco's lips as he presses down. "In which Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy probably should have just fucked in eighth year."

The kiss is not nearly enough. It is perfect, and uncomplicated, and it doesn't sear him the way he is anticipating. But it is not nearly enough. Draco smiles as Harry pulls away, turns away without even a pause, puts on a shirt and drags on some shorts. 

Lunch is as good a place as any to start correcting his mistakes. 


End file.
